


Domestic Illness

by occult2000



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Charles Has To Give Up His Dad Duties, Charles Is Sick As Fuck, Established Relationship, Illnesses, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Nathan Is A Dad, Protective Nathan, Role Reversal Kind Of, Sick Character, Technically Hurt/Comfort but Not Really, Trans Charles, Trans Male Character, Warning: Emeto, Workaholic Charles, very gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-14 06:27:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15382677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/occult2000/pseuds/occult2000
Summary: Charles' immune system is, despite everyone else thinking so, not the greatest. Nathan notices. Gay shenanigans ensue.( !! EMETOPHOBIA WARNING !! (It's not severe, but he's sick, so obviously there's some vom involved. Nothing too gross.) This is set just barely after S3 of Metalocalypse, directly following Doublebookedklok.





	Domestic Illness

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a doctor.

The resonating and rather annoying drone of Charles' alarm hit him head-on like a train, the irritating beep feeling like it was going to split his skull open. A groan escaped him, and his hand slowly made its way to his forehead, where his slim fingers dug into the worried-lined skin in a sad attempt to keep his headache at bay. Ever since he had died, his migraines and headaches had become progressively worse; at times they were so painful that his vision would go dark for short moments. A part of him wondered if he had always had headaches this bad, or if dying had increased their intensity.

Today was not going to be an easy day.

But it didn't matter. The boys needed him, and he wouldn't be able to rest knowing he had work to do anyways. He would just pop a few aspirin and be on his way. Maybe even some oxycodone, if he really started to feel terrible. 

After a few short moments of struggling to drag himself out of bed, Charles suddenly felt as if the room was spinning around him, like he was on a broken-down carousel ride that was set to rotate on the highest speed. He was on his hands and knees before he could even consciously explain it to himself, and not soon after, he violently threw up onto his floor, the sharp smell reaching him after only a few seconds as he turned himself and laid flat on his back. His chest slowly rose and fell, his eyes fixed directly on his ceiling; there wasn't much to look at, but staring in one spot often helped his vertigo resolve itself. The previously-escaped contents of his stomach burned noticeably in his throat, and he silently wondered why it was so unbearably hot in his quarters. Dragging himself back off his tile floor, using the post of his bed as support, he quietly wiped his own vomit off his floor, despite having willing workers who could and would do it for him. The thought of having someone clean up after him like he was a child made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up straight and alert. Not only that, but showing weakness after what had happened only a few short months ago... That terrified him even more. 

Unable to think about doing much of anything else besides work, Charles reluctantly and very slowly started his day, feeling dizzy and lightheaded the entire way through his routine. The taste of toothpaste clashed with the rather disgusting aftertaste of vomit in his mouth, and burned in the back of his throat like fire. Between the shower and the sink, he had almost collapsed a second time, his head beginning to spin relentlessly. When scalding hot water began to rush over his nape and back, Charles found himself finally able to relax, although the temperature was almost unbearable given the warmth he was already feeling from just being in his room. After a while of standing under the shower, he stumbled out and got himself dressed, perfectly and without a single thing out of place. Or so he thought, when in reality, his jacket buttons were mismatched, and his tie lopsided. 

As he passed the tiny kitchen in his quarters, he reached into his cabinet and at first grabbed for his regular strength aspirin, before thinking for half a second and swapping it out for his prescribed pain medication. He let his thumb play idly with the fraying label, and pulled off the child-locked cap, pushing it up and over with his strong but narrow fingers and shaking out two cylindrical pills that he easily took dry. On his way out the door, he grabbed a small thermos of coffee that had already been left out for him and shut and locked his quarters. The door was unassuming and was in the corner of his office, appearing to be a locked closet door or something similar. This was done on purpose, because having an obvious door to his private room fueled his paranoia and interrupted his sleep; or what little he got. 

Sleep was and always had been an issue for him. As a child, he had been consistently sick; as a teen and younger man he had spent hours up at night doing school work and the like, with little time for himself. He graduated from law school at only 20 years old, as he had left high school early due to skipping grades through testing. After college, he had gone as wild as he ever had and probably would ever get; he and Pickles had more in common then either would like to really share. His young adult years were spent in a haze of drugs, music, and many different men. Men that had not considered his lack of a dick to be an issue. After leaving his father's house, Charles was able to make the changes to his body that he had been dreaming of for years. An idle hand touched his chest, and a small sigh went through his nose. He was so grateful that nothing pressed up against his fingers anymore; that his chest had been sculpted carefully into the shape he had always needed it to be. Sleep proved to be a elusive prey that Charles just couldn't catch up to no matter how hard he tried, and it had almost always been that way. 

Another, quieter huff forced its way through his mouth as he dropped himself into his office chair, and scooted himself close to his desk, staring at the flashing light on his phone that indicated recorded messages left for him during the night. Terrific. There was always something left to do, and his work droned on, unbounded, and seemingly never-endingly. Charles didn't hate his job, he was grateful for it, and he had a healthy amount of paternal affection and concern for the band he spent so much of his time managing, but because he worked such long, unremitting hours, he had no time for leisure or pleasure activities. He barely had time to take care of his own health. 

He let his head rest in his hands, exhausted; and a rumbling cough rudely interrupted his thoughts, pushing its way through his chest and up. After a few quick, short coughs, it dissolved into a full-on fit; his body shook slightly and he leaned his face into his sleeve for several moments until the coughing subsided. Another soft groan left his lips. As much as he just wanted to say that he might have just slept with his mouth open again, Charles knew he was sick. He probably had the flu; he wouldn't be surprised if Pickles had given it to him, or one of the other boys. Slowly shutting his eyes, he resolved himself to just taking a few seconds to shut his eyes and wait for his medication to start working against the pain still rattling in his head.

"Charles."

Softly, Charles opened his eyes, cracking them open and nearly groaning as they stuck together disgustingly. He eventually got them open enough to see clearly, and he realized he was on the floor of his office. Two things immediately crossed his mind; A) He had fallen asleep while working, which was embarrassing enough as it was, and B) he had fallen out of his chair and onto the ground without waking up. A snort of laughter broke into his thoughts and he realized that Nathan had woken him up, and was squatting next to him, looking slightly worried but obviously trying to keep it off his face. 

"I, ah.. sorry. I must have drifted off. My apologies." Charles mumbled, rubbing his hands with his open palms and slowly sitting himself up and feeling his head spin around just from the slight movement. He could practically hear the worry forcing itself onto Nathan's face. A hand slightly outstretched itself to offer help, and Charles ignored it, getting himself seated comfortably back in his chair. "So, what do you need?" he asks, raising his unfocused eyes to look at Nathan, who is now making no effort to show how displeased and worried he is. Charles feels goosebumps raise on his arms from the look he's getting. It reminds him slightly of 'I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed.' 

Nathan looked at Charles with heavy concern in his eyes, and a little bit of annoyance. He was more than a little pissed to see Charles in this state. At first, he thought maybe that Charles had drank too much last night, since he was unraveled and messily dressed, but the heavy purple bags under his eyes and his pale face told otherwise. Without saying anything, Nathan grabbed Charles' middle section and hoisted him out of his desk chair, putting him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and headed towards the unassuming door that led back to his apartment-esque quarters. 

Charles, shocked by the sudden movement and the audacity of his partner, gripped into the back of his black t-shirt, and squirmed, trying to get himself free. Nathan was and always had been stronger than him, and although Charles could pick Nathan up if he really put effort into it, Nathan could easily pick Charles up as if he weighed next to nothing. Nathan finally stopped walking after a few moments, but it was only so he could hold out his hand so that Charles could give him the key to the door. Sighing in defeat, Charles reached into his pocket as best he could while slung over his boyfriend's wide shoulder and put the key down in his large palm. 

As soon as Nathan set him down inside his small flat, Charles made a surprisingly mad dash for the bathroom and promptly threw up. The poor dude knocked his left side on the doorway because of how out of focus he was.

Nathan didn't bother to follow him, instead crossing his arms and leaning against the wall, looking down at the ground and noting how everything was absolutely spotless and cleaned, completely immaculate, except for Charles' bed, which was messy and had blankets tossed everywhere as if he had been turning in his sleep. He wasn't like them, he didn't use the Klokateers to clean up after him, he did it all on his spare time. Which meant that Charles felt bad enough to not bother making his bed this morning. The sound of the sink turning on jostled him out of his thinking state and he walked over to the small bathroom and opened the door to find Charles, slouched over his sink, looking paler than ever. Charles wiped his mouth on his sleeve and stood up as straight as he could manage. 

"Why did you bring me in here, Nathan?" he asked, as if he was feigning stupidity. Nathan simply rolled his eyes, and crossed his arms over his chest in a symbol of assertion. 

"You know why. You look like shit." Charles opened his mouth to argue with him, but Nathan looked at him with his intense, green eyes, and the older, smaller man shut his mouth as quickly as he had opened it. "I'm pretty god damn stupid, but I'm not that stupid. I know when someone's sick. I live with Pickles, remember? Dude's literally always getting something passed to him." 

Charles looked down at his feet, and was suddenly aware that he had put his shoes on the wrong feet. Ashamed, he closed his eyes and felt much like a child that was being scolded for being disobedient. Showing weakness, and being vulnerable were two things that Charles was surprisingly bad at doing; he never wanted to accept outside help, and wanted to do things alone. Usually, this worked for him, as he was so passionately organized that juggling his workload was manageable, thought it was anything but ever finished or easily done. 

"Hey." Nathan rumbles, attempting to get Charles' attention. "You're thinking too much again." 

Snapping out of his slight haze, Charles looks back up to match his gaze with Nathan's, and can tell that more than anything, he's just worried about him. Probably just wants him to take a break, or something. Nathan loves him. But things still had to get done around here; whether he was sick or not. 

Coughing under his breath, Charles looks over to the side and sighs. "Nathan, you do know that every other time I've ever been sick, I've ah, just stuck through it? I know what I'm doing." Still feeling insecure, Charles crosses his own arms and leans against the wall for support. "I can do this. I don't need your help." 

Before he can really think about what he's said, Charles' words have already left his lips, and he sees Nathan's face morph into one of sight irritation and pity. 

"Well, too bad. You're gonna get it, you fuckin' dumbass." Nathan firmly replies, not so much as missing a beat. Charles is about to open his mouth to retort, but Nathan just pulls him by the sleeve, heading to his bed. "You're so fuckin' stupid sometimes." he mutters under his breath, shoving Charles forcefully into bed and shutting the door, blocking it with the hulk of his body. "You're not a robot. And like, even if you were, you'd still need to recharge and shit." 

A forefinger and thumb found its way back to it's familiar, almost rutted spot between his eyes. He knew Nathan was right. Without rest, his health would probably just decline steadily until he actually couldn't function. There wasn't too much to be done today, nothing that the Gears couldn't handle, but his anxiety gnawed at him like a persistent dog. What if something was to happen in his absence? He didn't know if he trusted his men enough to leave them; or the boys for that matter. Still, despite this, Charles kicked his dress shoes off of his feet and sighed in defeat. "So, Doctor Explosion," he teased lightly, "What would you, ah, have me do then?" 

Nathan appeared to think hard about it for a good while, before gruffly ordering Charles to stay put while he 'got some shit.' Resigned, Charles laid down in bed, putting his glasses on the bedside stand, as he always did. Charles was a side sleeper, so he curled his knees to his lower stomach, and pulled a pillow to his chest, wrapping his slender arms around the cool material. After a few minutes of lying awake in his familiar position, he heard his bedroom door crack open, and Nathan walked back in, his boots making a familiar and comforting sound; one of leather crunching against itself. The sound of his belt and keys jingled brightly in contrast to the silence as he trod back to the side of Charles' bed. A large hand softly rested onto Charles' shoulder, and Charles felt Nathan's thumb brushing against the material of his dress shirt. It was a strangely tender gesture, and a thought crossed Charles' mind; maybe Nathan enjoyed the domesticity they scarcely often got to share together. 

Maybe he should let him enjoy it.

A small rush of shame washed over him. Nathan had never explicitly expressed to him how stressed and upset his death had made him, but Charles knew that it had probably been one of the worst things to happen to him in a long while. In the same ways that Charles feared losing the boys, feared failing at his job, Nathan must fear Charles disappearing a second time. Must fear losing him. Though the 9 months of his absence had been used for important things, somehow a part of him managed to still make him feel selfish for leaving Nathan and the others to fend for themselves. 

Nathan set down a bowl of soup and gestured to it with a grunt and a slight shrug. Charles knew it was just microwaved canned soup, but the display of affection was evident and made a small smile press to Charles' lips. "Thank you, Nathan." he mumbles, his voice coarse due to his cough. He cleared his throat and picked up the bowl carefully, watching Nathan in his peripheral and noting that the poor man had no idea where to go or what to do with his hands. Laughing silently to himself, Charles used one hand to pat the side of his bed, inviting Nathan to sit there next to him. The bulkier man moved carefully through the bedroom to the other side of the bed, shrugging off his heavy, black boots and sliding into place at Charles' side. 

"I really do, uh, appreciate it, you know? That you're.. trying to take care of me." Charles stated blankly, still staring forwards and eating his soup slowly. Nathan didn't say anything back, so Charles finished his soup in silence, and set the bowl to the side when he was done. After a moment of consideration, he slid quietly into the crook of Nathan's arm, wrapping his arms around his middle and resting his head against the side of his chest. A moment of doubt crossed his mind when Nathan stiffened, probably from shock of Charles being so touchy-feely, but soothed itself down when Nathan settled in and wrapped his broad arm around Charles' shoulders, pulling him even closer. Charles could hear Nathan's heartbeat, the rhythmic pattern relaxing him. 

Nathan slightly massaged his weighty fingers into Charles' shoulder, just near his neck, and leaned over a bit, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head, which was warm from fever. A good few minutes pass between them; content and quiet. It's only the sound of Charles' softly snoring that lets Nathan know that the man has finally dozed off. Nathan makes note not to disturb him; the guys will be ok without them for at least a day. 

Charles should get sick more often.


End file.
